ways and seeing the coast is clear, he decides to ignore the warning and cross the street anyway.
Guilt is that traffic light. Stop—don’t do this because it’s dangerous/bad/selfish … Don’t smoke a cigarette. Don’t have an affair. You think you’re to blame for your wife’s death. Seeing the red light, you recognize its warning. Then you must decide whether you want to go anyway. If you cross the street and ignore the warning, you don’t think, oh no, what am I doing? Did I make the wrong decision by crossing? Should I go back and wait? Of course not—you move to the other side and keep walking. The analyst told Edmonds holding on to guilt is like carrying the red traffic light around with you, which is ridiculous.
So William Edmonds gradually learned to listen to his inner voices, consider what they said, and then make his decision. Now once he made up his mind on something he rarely looked back.
Today he’d needed the girl to convince Kaspar Benn to contact him. Mission accomplished. The fact the child didn’t approve of his method was unimportant.
* * *
“He’s no filet mignon; he’s not even steak . He’s chuck roast, maybe. London broil at best.”
This is how it began for Edmonds. It was the first thing he’d heard that morning after he sat down in the blue chair and looking out the window, asked himself, what the hell am I doing here? But he knew it was either get on the bus, or go home and kill himself. The choice was that stark and simple.
The big black and white bus sat parked at the curb with its motor running and gray exhaust fumes puffing out its pipes. The driver leaned against the side of the bus by the open door, smoking a cigarette and incuriously watching the crowd. A large group of old people stood on the sidewalk nearby, clearly waiting to board.
Earlier while walking down the street toward them, Edmonds smiled for the first time that morning when he noticed how dressed up all those oldies were. The women had high frozen hairdos that clearly indicated they’d just been to the hairdresser. Most of the men wore brand-new shoes with no creases or scuffs on them, and dark suits or perfectly pressed jackets. All of them appeared to be wearing neckties, despite the fact it was only six o’clock in the morning and their days of going to an office were long past.
Someone from the neighborhood had told Edmonds that once a month a bus parked at this spot, loaded up, and then rumbled off for a day’s outing arranged by the town or a local senior citizens’ club. It took pensioners to neighboring towns with museums or historical sites worth visiting. Sometimes they motored into the nearby national park, had a hike around, lunch, and then returned to this drop-off spot with some sun on their cheeks, tired legs, and the good feeling of knowing their cameras were full of new pictures and the day had meant something.
Approaching this crowd now, Edmonds was hit by thick waves of warring perfumes. He could imagine every single woman there spritzing on her favorite fragrance as she prepared to leave her house earlier this morning. Did the single women put on more perfume, hoping to catch the attention of the available bachelors who would be on the bus? Or was it the married gals who drenched themselves with scents so strong they almost physically stopped Edmonds when he was ten feet away? Were there many single people in this group? If so, were there more men or women? When you are sixty-five, seventy, seventy-five … are you still looking for a life partner or only a nice companion for the day?
The sight of all those dapper old people eager to be off on their day’s jaunt wearing their wide neckties and thick-as-lead perfumes, together with the thought of actually having a partner on a trip when you were seventy-five years old, almost cut Edmonds in half with grief and longing for his lost beloved wife. The impulse to go home and finish it, end his life, was very
Guilt is that traffic light. Stop—don’t do this because it’s dangerous/bad/selfish … Don’t smoke a cigarette. Don’t have an affair. You think you’re to blame for your wife’s death. Seeing the red light, you recognize its warning. Then you must decide whether you want to go anyway. If you cross the street and ignore the warning, you don’t think, oh no, what am I doing? Did I make the wrong decision by crossing? Should I go back and wait? Of course not—you move to the other side and keep walking. The analyst told Edmonds holding on to guilt is like carrying the red traffic light around with you, which is ridiculous.
So William Edmonds gradually learned to listen to his inner voices, consider what they said, and then make his decision. Now once he made up his mind on something he rarely looked back.
Today he’d needed the girl to convince Kaspar Benn to contact him. Mission accomplished. The fact the child didn’t approve of his method was unimportant.
* * *
“He’s no filet mignon; he’s not even steak . He’s chuck roast, maybe. London broil at best.”
This is how it began for Edmonds. It was the first thing he’d heard that morning after he sat down in the blue chair and looking out the window, asked himself, what the hell am I doing here? But he knew it was either get on the bus, or go home and kill himself. The choice was that stark and simple.
The big black and white bus sat parked at the curb with its motor running and gray exhaust fumes puffing out its pipes. The driver leaned against the side of the bus by the open door, smoking a cigarette and incuriously watching the crowd. A large group of old people stood on the sidewalk nearby, clearly waiting to board.
Earlier while walking down the street toward them, Edmonds smiled for the first time that morning when he noticed how dressed up all those oldies were. The women had high frozen hairdos that clearly indicated they’d just been to the hairdresser. Most of the men wore brand-new shoes with no creases or scuffs on them, and dark suits or perfectly pressed jackets. All of them appeared to be wearing neckties, despite the fact it was only six o’clock in the morning and their days of going to an office were long past.
Someone from the neighborhood had told Edmonds that once a month a bus parked at this spot, loaded up, and then rumbled off for a day’s outing arranged by the town or a local senior citizens’ club. It took pensioners to neighboring towns with museums or historical sites worth visiting. Sometimes they motored into the nearby national park, had a hike around, lunch, and then returned to this drop-off spot with some sun on their cheeks, tired legs, and the good feeling of knowing their cameras were full of new pictures and the day had meant something.
Approaching this crowd now, Edmonds was hit by thick waves of warring perfumes. He could imagine every single woman there spritzing on her favorite fragrance as she prepared to leave her house earlier this morning. Did the single women put on more perfume, hoping to catch the attention of the available bachelors who would be on the bus? Or was it the married gals who drenched themselves with scents so strong they almost physically stopped Edmonds when he was ten feet away? Were there many single people in this group? If so, were there more men or women? When you are sixty-five, seventy, seventy-five … are you still looking for a life partner or only a nice companion for the day?
The sight of all those dapper old people eager to be off on their day’s jaunt wearing their wide neckties and thick-as-lead perfumes, together with the thought of actually having a partner on a trip when you were seventy-five years old, almost cut Edmonds in half with grief and longing for his lost beloved wife. The impulse to go home and finish it, end his life, was very
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